Page 10 of Lovetown, USA

Lane

Memories.

Nostalgia.

That’s how I’m feeling right now as I hobble across the neon streaked carpet at High Rollers. It’s one of two Lovetown skating rinks, the other being ice.

This place isn’t Cascade, but it’ll do.

I’m here at singles skate night for research purposes, but I can’t even lie. This reminds me of high school in the best way. The colors, the lights, the music, even the pungent smell of nacho cheese and greasy hot dogs.

And of course, there are cute boys here, only they’re men now, with beards and jobs and mortgages.

But I can’t pay attention to them just yet.

At the moment, I’m grabbing the wall, trying my level best to get my sea legs back.

I’m rusty as hell, and while I don’t care about embarrassing myself, I do care about hurting myself.

I might only be 38 years old, but my knees and my back don’t care.

They feel every impact these days, so I have to keep it cute tonight.

I hobble around for a few minutes, then manage to get rid of the shakes. I do a few experimental glides across the low carpet. Okay. Cool. I got this. I’m almost graceful with it.

Then the DJ throws on “Laffy Taffy” and, being from where I’m from, I can’t not get my ass out there on the floor.

I step down and roll, my body quickly remembering what to do. I’m smiling now, making a full lap like I do this every day.

A few of the grown boys check me out. Not bad. Not bad at all. My hips join the party. I snap my fingers to the beat. I’m having fun. This doesn’t suck.

Then someone crashes into me.

It’s not a soft bump. It’s a full-on shoulder check with This! Is! Sparta! energy.

I go down hard, hitting the floor on my hands, thank goodness. A jolt of pain flares through my right wrist, but it’s not too bad. It’s not broken.

My pride is, though.

I’m starting to feel like this town is lowkey rejecting me, one injury at a time. And, okay, maybe the first one was my fault, but I’m sensing a pattern here.

“Shit,” I mutter as I sit up, clutching my wrist.

A voice above me yells out, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”

I look up and into the wide, apologetic eyes of the most strikingly beautiful woman I’ve ever seen outside of my mirror. She’s sporting rich brown skin, a fresh twistout, and curves that fill out every inch of fabric on her body.

She holds out her hand, pulling me to my feet with an ease that makes me self-conscious about my own strength. Or lack thereof.

“I seriously did not mean to do that,” she says, brushing her hand down my arm like she’s cleaning dirt off of me. “I owe you a drink.”

My ears perk up as a smile breaks out across my face. I’d been thinking about a dirty martini.

“Come on,” she says, pulling off before I have a chance to answer. I follow behind her all the way to the concession stand, where she disappoints me by ordering two Cokes.

I know this place is often frequented by kids, but it’s adult skate night, for God’s sake.

She grabs both drinks and leads us to a high-top table. Our cups are covered with cartoon hearts, of course, and the straws are striped pink and red. I roll my eyes and take a sip, sneaking glances at my striking new friend. Those doe eyes. The diamond stud in her nose. That bright white smile.

“I’m Shayla,” she offers.

“My Shaylaaaa.”

She laughs at my corny joke, sarcastically quipping, “That’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

While we drink in awkward silence, I get it in my head that I can do an impromptu interview with my new friend Shayla, but as I try to recall the questions I’ve been asking folks, I’m stonewalled by the loud music.

“I’ll be honest,” I yell. “I’d prefer a real drink. Are there any bars around here?”

She doesn’t even waste time thinking about it. “Across the street. Meet me at the front entrance in an hour?”

“Absolutely.”

She finishes her Coke skates off, and I spend the next hour collecting phone numbers. Some of the grown boys are cute, some are trying way too hard, and one is so buttoned-up and stiff, I peg him for a youth pastor in disguise.

I’m ten minutes away from a dirty martini and some Lovetown tea when the DJ cuts the music and starts a round of silly games. My mind goes back to bingo night and I realize this corny shit is part of the city’s infrastructure at this point. The scam is scamming hard.

I take the opportunity to get the hell on, turning in my skates before I retreat to the restroom to freshen my makeup. By the time I reach the exit, Shayla is waiting for me.

“Ready?” she asks, her eyes shining in the bright lobby lights.

“I’m following you.”

She leads us out the door and across the busy four-lane thoroughfare. We run and giggle like almost getting hit by cars is funny, then we duck into a bar called Velvet Kiss. Inside, it’s darkly romantic with it’s deep burgundy walls, soft, velvet-covered booths, and unfairly attractive waitstaff.

We slide into a booth. Shayla orders a mezcal old fashioned. I get a dirty martini, of course, and when the drinks come out, we raise our glasses.

“Cheers to being two bad bitches,” I say.

We clink glasses, and then the conversation begins to flow over the Ari Lennox song playing softly in the background.

“Journalism,” she says. “Wow. I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

I take a hearty sip. “What would you have guessed?”

She smiles as her eyes rake over me. “Supermodel?’

“Girl, bye,” I laugh. “I’m five-four on a tall day.”

“Face card,” she explains. “Maybe print.”

“Maybe stop gassing me up,” I say to her laughter. “Actually, my dream was to host a nightly news show. CNN. Sixty Minutes. Dateline .”

Shayla nods. “Keep at it. I’m sure you’ll get there.”

I don’t respond to that. There is no response, really, because my dream is over at this point, and I only have myself to blame.

“What do you do?” I ask, anxious to sail past the moment.

“I’m a musical therapist.”

“Interesting. What does that entail?”

Her brows lift, her face lights up, and her voice goes all professional as she gives me her elevator speech.

“Basically, I use music to help trauma survivors and special needs patients process their emotions.”

“Fascinating,” I say. “I bet that’s way more interesting than journalism.”

She shrugs. “Probably not as exciting, though. And less cutthroat.”

“Facts.” I down the rest of my martini. “So how long have you lived here?”

“In Lovetown? All my life.”

“Really?” Hearing those words excites me. “So you have some good insight, then.”

“Into what?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that this town treats dating like it’s your civic duty.”

She laughs softly. “That’s actually a more recent development.” She drains her drink, then raises a hand to flag down a waiter. “I know this place as Maple Grove.”

“So then you just date normally.”

“Of course.” She leans back and rests her arm on the top of the booth, her body relaxing like she’s in her element. “Most of us do. It’s the transplants who come here for the love bullshit.”

I’m sure my face lights up like a kid in a candy store. “So you think it’s a scam, too?”

She lifts a shoulder. “Never really thought about it.” She leans forward, her voice going soft. “I’d rather talk about something else, though.”

“What’s that?”

She blinks slowly as her gaze intensifies. “Are you seeing anybody?”

Oh.

Ohhhhh .

I take a breath, leaning back to rest against the booth. “I should tell you…I’m not a lesbian.”

Shayla chuckles. “I clocked that an hour ago, baby girl.”

I blink. “Then why—?”

“You’re fine as hell. The vibes were vibing. I figured I’d shoot my shot.”

I nod as she tries to flag down our waiter again. “I didn’t mean to kill the vibe.”

“You didn’t,” she says with a wave of her hand. “It’s all good. I can handle rejection. I’m not a man.”

We both laugh at that before she looks around. “Guess I have to go up to the bar myself. You want another?”

“Please.”

Once she’s gone, I smile to myself while also mentally kicking myself. How did I not catch that?

When she returns with our drinks, I change the subject back to the town. I have an exposé to write.

“What’s it like dating in this town as a queer person, if you don’t mind me asking.”

Her dark eyes flicker over me as her mouth lifts at the corners.

“I mean, I know queer couples who have gotten married. Whatever this is, scam or magic, it seems to work on everybody equally.”

Well, that’s good. That’s fair. No story there, I suppose. But I’m not satisfied.

“When did this all start?”

Her lips press together in a tight line as she exhales sharply from her nose. “I can’t say for sure. I don’t think about it. I really don’t.”

I’ve lost her, I can tell.

We finish our drinks between polite small talk, then head to the car in silence. The ride to the hotel is equally quiet. Shayla pulls up to the curb and puts the car in park before turning to me.

“It was very nice meeting you, Lane.”

“You, too. Sorry if I was pressing too hard back there.”

She frowns.

“With my questions about the town?”

“Oh.” Her face relaxes. “I’m good. I just think you’ll have better luck with the transplants. Folks who grew up here, we just kinda ignore all this shit.”

I nod, giving her a shy smile. Our eyes lock, and it’s honestly kind of unsettling the way she stares at me. But not in a bad way. It’s simply… new .

“Are you sure you’re not a little bit curious?” she asks.

I avert my eyes, looking out of the dash at the door of my hotel. “Maybe a little,” I admit.

“Look at me.”

Well. Shit.

I do as I’m told, knowing exactly what I’ll find. Sure enough, those big brown eyes are fixed on me, heavy with heat, holding me in place.

“Would it be wrong of me to kiss you knowing I’m straight?”

She shrugs as her eyes drop to my lips. “It’s entirely up to you.”

Nadia’s voice echoes in my head, and so does the promise I made her. I’m supposed to keep an open mind. Say yes. Live life to the fullest. Experience new things. All the platitudes.

So I lean in.

Her lips are soft. The kiss is slow and lingering, like we have all the time in the world to explore. She’s patient with me, no agenda or destination in mind, just soft, sensual pecks kisses until I open my mind a little further—along with my mouth.

When our tongues meet, I feel it. A stirring.

Heat. She puts a hand on my cheek, her palm hot, her touch tender.

It’s me who tilts my head and deepens the kiss, because it feels good, and because why not?

She follows my lead, gently gliding her tongue against mine, her taste sweet.

We French kiss for a long, quiet, pleasurable moment, maybe more, and something blooms in my chest that’s not quite attraction, but definitely not nothing.

When we finally pull apart, I sit back and exhale.

“Damn,” I say softly. “That was…”

She smiles knowingly like she renders people speechless every day. “It did something for you?”

“I mean…it felt good,” I admit. “I think I’m still straight, though.”

“Fair enough.” She reaches into her clutch, digs around, then pulls out a business card. “If that ever changes, give me a call. I do private sessions.”

“Therapy, or…”

“Player’s choice,” she says with a wink.

I take the card, lean across the console, and kiss her cheek. “Thank you. I really enjoyed meeting you.”

“Same,” she says. “I’ll see you around.”

Inside my room, I drop my purse onto the desk and collapse on the bed. For a while, I stare up at the ceiling, smiling at the night’s events. Then I pull out my phone and call Nadia.

No answer.

Probably out somewhere with a guy on her roster.

But I need to talk to somebody. I kind of feel like I’m bursting at the seams.

Then I remember I have a friend here in town. Sort of.

Trey’s office is closed, but the voicemail message gives the option to press two for the after hours number.

It rings three times before he picks up.

“This is Dr. Montgomery.”

“Trey. It’s Lane. Something weird just happened to me.”